Our Bodies, Fractured and Bleeding With Light
by Jacquzy
Summary: A love story for the end. Title inspired by Paige Bradley's "Expansion."
1. Chapter 1

The room in which Italy stored his paintings was at the back of the apartment. It was perfectly square, and there was only one window, which most of the time he hid behind a curtain, so as to prevent the sunlight from fading the paint. He kept a multitude of paintings in there – huge canvases that were now finished, and framed, and rough etchings that were only half-covered with colour, but still beautiful, in their own way, and barely-there pencil sketches, tucked away in sketchpads, bound by string and ribbon. Italy felt no guilt about leaving one idea unfinished and moving on to the next. He had eternity to work on his art, after all.

Italy liked to go in there most days to look at his own work. He didn't think of it as arrogance: he simply admired beautiful things, and he always managed to find something beautiful in any piece of art, whether it had been created by himself or somebody else; and besides, he was proud of his work, of his skill, of the time he'd put in to improving his technique. And it made him happy; it pleased him, to look at the paintings, and to know that he had accomplished something, to know that the tiny ideas he had incubated and pruned had flourished, had taken root firmly enough in his hands and pencils that now they were thickly daubed across canvasses before him.

It was a particularly sunny afternoon when it started. Or rather – it didn't start then, no…because he'd already had the cough for a while – but it was sunny, and his cough was especially fierce, and he recalled seeing the little white specks of dust drifting through bars of sunlight all around him.

He closed the door, and began moving slowly, carefully, about the room. Today he wanted to examine the canvasses. The still uncompleted ones stood on their easels, or at the top of a stack of others, or else they leant against the wall close to the door, covered with lightweight sheets for easy access. The older paintings, the ones he had finished long ago and didn't have room to display at present, and the unfinished pieces he knew would remain unfinished for a while, were wrapped in brown paper, hidden away behind their bright brothers and sisters. Italy knelt down, and began sifting through a pile of small, squarish canvasses tucked away in a dark corner and covered in a thick layer of dust. These paintings had not been touched for a longer length of time than he'd first thought, he realised.

Squatting back on his heels, he picked up the first canvas, and blew the dust from it. It plumed like pale smoke in the air before him, and he coughed, loudly. His cold was getting worse, he thought. Never mind. He set to pulling away the hairy strings binding the canvas, and ripping back the ancient paper. It tore apart easily, and sent another white cloud billowing upwards. Italy covered his mouth and nose.

The painting was unfinished – at least, he thought it was. It was very, very old. Perhaps it had simply faded? Perhaps the paint had dried out, and been rubbed and chipped away. He let his fingertips run lightly over the surface. It felt rough, and brittle. It was also upside-down. Cautiously, Italy turned the painting the right way up. He smiled.

It was a portrait. A picture he'd painted a long time ago, of a little boy with pink cheeks and a serious mouth and strict blond hair. He laughed out loud, remembering how he'd told the boy he looked really angry as he'd painted him.

Holy Rome had become flustered. His hands had clenched and unclenched in his long black cloak.

And Italy had laughed, and told him he was just joking. And Holy Rome had settled, somewhat, though in the end he still looked like he was about to headbutt somebody.

Italy smiled again, shaking his head as he put the painting carefully down, and went to the chest of drawers at the back of the room where he kept rolls of brown paper, and scissors, and string. The memories weren't particularly painful. Not anymore. Not after so very long. Sometimes there was a sad ache in the back of his throat, or deep within his chest, and he found it difficult to speak. But most of the time he could think back on those times spent at Austria's house quite happily. And he knew that one day, everything would come full circle. He did not doubt that for a second.

He studied the little boy's face again as he knelt in the dust once more, and prepared to re-wrap the painting. He was, he thought, so very handsome. He always had been. He smiled at those solemn blue eyes, and wondered, not for the first time, if he ought to show one of his paintings of Holy Rome to Germany. For a brief moment, he entertained the notion. He pictured stern gaze meeting stern gaze, and…

But no. No, he thought, he would trust it all to fate, and to God. What would come to pass, would come to pass. Everything would sort itself out in the end.

Italy remembered his renaissance quite well. It had been a marvellous time for him, after all. He had flourished. He remembered earlier times too, but less clearly – and at some point, the smooth , straight road of remembrance began to wind, and became pitted with bumps and potholes. And at some points the road vanished completely. And Italy saw nothing at all, only vague flashes of what he had once been.

He didn't completely remember choosing his human form. He did remember – or at least, he had a vague notion of the idea – that he'd been unable to decide if he wanted to be male or female. In the end, male had won (just) but he'd been able to retain some elements of that beautiful female human form – curves and softness instead of hard muscles, and big eyes that he liked immensely.

His form had altered a little, to keep up with the changing chins and postures and noses of mankind, but for the most part it had remained the same. It still wasn't his though; not entirely. It was pieced together, really, like a collage, Italy's favourite pieces of humanity tacked together: fingers he'd once seen, sweetness he'd long ago sensed. And even though it wasn't truly his (no more than his name was, and that would also have to change again, like his form, at some point) he liked it a great deal. And he was very happy.

He finished wrapping the painting up, and put it back in the corner. It was exceptionally dusty back there. He coughed again, hard. "Ugh," he said, when the scratchy tickling in his throat and the pressure in his chest had subsided. But his voice was thinner than usual, hoarse, the vocal equivalent of aging sandpaper.

It was unpleasant, but it did not matter. He couldn't expect anything else, in truth, what with the financial crisis and so forth. He would go and have a coffee, he decided, and a throat sweet, and see how the afternoon panned out.

Two days later he was in Brussels. Germany had texted him. He was in the bar at Le Meridien, he said. There was an x at the end of the message, which Italy appreciated greatly. It made him smile to think of Germany dithering over whether or not to include the note of affection. Perhaps that was why Germany had included it? It was not so much the thing itself as the saturated meaning of it…his mind wandered, and before long, the cab was drawing up before the hotel. The concierge desk called for a porter, and Italy headed straight for the bar. All rooms were the same, after all.

Germany was sat in a corner at a low table, legs crossed, scowling at a Belgian newspaper. He didn't seem to notice as Italy approached – and he started when Italy placed his hands over his eyes, and kissed him on the top of his neat blond hair.

"Italy?"

"Guten Tag," Italy said, smiling.

Germany twisted from his grip, and stood up. He kissed Italy once on each cheek, as was expected – but he also wrapped his arms around Italy's back, and allowed the other nation to lean all his weight into him.

"What's wrong with your voice?" he murmured.

"Cough," said Italy, distantly. His throat still felt raw, as though it had been filed, and it hurt to speak.

Germany's arms slid away from him, and his hands moved steadily to Italy's shoulders.

"You sound awful," he said. He didn't mean it in a callous way – Italy had long since grown used to Germany's bluntness, his awkward manner of phrasing things – it was just another facet of his being Italy adored. "Would you like to go to the room? You could take a nap until dinner."

A nap sounded wonderful, but what Italy really craved was to stay with Germany – to keep looking at him, listening to his voice, touching him. He shook his head. "Let's stay here," he said. Germany didn't look particularly happy at this idea, but he sat back down, and called for a waiter to bring his companion a glass of white wine.

"You aren't the only one who's ill," Germany said, when the wine had been brought over, and Italy was sipping from the glass, head tilted to the side as he fondly regarded the other. "Austria is very pale. He said that he fainted the other day."

"What else can we expect in this economy?" Italy said, and then he played his own words back to himself, and he opened his mouth wide and laughed.

Germany laughed too, quietly, ducking his head.

"Listen to me!" Italy croaked, and he passed a hand over his eyes. "Ah! Does it turn you on?"

"Oh, shut up," Germany said, poking him in the shin with the toe of his highly polished shoe.

Italy shook his head, still smiling, and his laughter died down, only to be replaced by violent, throaty coughs.

Germany sat forwards, quickly, taking the slopping glass of Chenin Blanc from the other's hand, and laid a hand gently on his back.

"Do you need some water?" he said.

"I'll be fine," Italy said, but his throat was tight, and he could hear his own intakes of breath labouring, rattling on the arduous journey between his mouth and his lungs.

"I really think –" Germany began, but Italy flapped a hand at him, half-turning away, stooping his back and balling a fist before his mouth. His cheeks turned pink as he coughed, hard.

Germany worried about Italy, a lot. He worried about his ditzy mind, his lackadaisical attitude, the way he would become so wrapped up in his paintings, his hobbies, his fantasy world, his friends – he worried that one day Italy would slip down the rabbit hole and never come out. He kept a hand on Italy's back, stroking it ineffectually. Physically, it would do nothing. But it was a way to let the other nation know he was there, a reassurance to both Italy and to himself that he was trying his best, that he was attempting to protect Italy, to keep sickness at bay, to calm him, if nothing else.

Italy choked and coughed and turned purple, and then, finally, eased his way into an upright position.

"I'm fine," he said. His voice was hoarse, and his eyes were bright, and watery. Germany allowed his hand to slide down the other's back. He touched his hand, briefly. Even over the chatter that filled the bar, even over the clinking of glasses and cutlery and the ringing of the cash register and the faint, low hum of the dishwasher, he could hear Italy struggling to breathe. His own lungs clenched tight in sympathy. And his chest _hurt. _

"Very well," he said.

But all was not well. And through the lush red carpets, and the shimmering wine glasses, and the linen suits, some uneasy smoke permeated their skin. And it was invisible, but Germany could still sense it, could still feel it, could still shudder at its touch. And he knew that something was changing. And in Italy's eyes he could see the same sense of recognition, and the same tense fear. And yet neither of them spoke about it; and neither of them knew it. And so they remained there in the bar, throats and chests tight, struggling to respire, saying nothing.

And the change crept closer, mute.

That night, they were having dinner with Spain and Romano. Germany was not particularly looking forward to spending the evening being verbally abused by the latter; but for Italy's sake, he would tolerate it. By about six thirty, however, he was feeling exhausted. There was a sharp pain directly behind his right eye, and in truth, he wanted nothing more than to curl up behind Italy, who was at present lying on the bed watching TV. But instead he picked up a towel, and sloped into the shower in an attempt to rouse himself somewhat.

It seemed to do the trick, he thought: his headache slowly faded into the steam, and the water hammering down on his shoulders perked him up a little (particularly when he gave himself one final cold blast before stepping onto the bathmat). However when he ventured back out into their room, damp-haired and wrapped in one of the thick, white, hotel towels, he felt that it had been something of an exercise in futility.

Italy was still on the bed – but his entire body had relaxed, and his eyes were closed. His breaths were deep and slow and hypnotic, and just listening to them, and watching the steady swell and droop of his chest made Germany sway with exhaustion on the spot.

He padded silently across the carpet, and leant over Italy's soft, sprawled body.

"Italy," he whispered, barely audibly. The sight of the other, so still, so peaceful, was both calming and beautiful. And, if he was being completely honest, at that moment he would rather have spent a thousand years lying with his eyes shut and listening to the sound of his lover sleeping than gorging himself on an infinite number of delicious and expensive meals with any other company. So he sent a quick, apologetic text message to Spain. And he dropped his towel. And he lowered himself down at Italy's side. And he closed his eyes. And he slept.

When Italy awoke the following day his throat felt like it had been stuffed with metal wool then set alight. He tried to swallow, to wet the back of his tongue and provide some comfort to himself, but his throat simply puffed out in anger, burned hotter. His skin was hot too, and damp; it prickled viciously, and wept, binding the sheets tightly against his body and raising the temperature even further.

He sat up, fighting the blankets. At his side, Germany slept on. He removed himself from the bed, and struggled into the bathroom. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest with acute and unfamiliar pain. It panicked him, and for a brief moment he considered waking his bedmate. But the chill of the air against his arms and back, and the tiles against his feet steadied him, grounded and rooted him, his self, his existence – and, gradually, he felt his heart rate becoming slower and slower until at last it once again reached its regular steady tick. He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes.

In the bedroom, Germany moved – rolled over – but did not wake up. Italy splashed icy water over his face and stared at his image in the mirror. It was rare for Germany to sleep for longer than he did.

Outside, the air was fresh, and the sky was the pale blue of a summer morning. Italy slipped into one of the complementary bath robes, and seated himself on one of the chairs on the balcony, drawing his legs up against his chest, and pressing his cheek to his hard, rounded kneecap.

Somewhere close by a bird sang, loudly and incessantly.

Italy shut his eyes again, and gazed into the endless black. Perhaps it was because he was such a visual person, so appreciative of aesthetics, but it seemed to him that the blackness he saw was not just a vacant blackness, but a blackness populated by tiny pinpricks that were not light, nor miniature pictures, but slight variations in tone: charcoal black against midnight black. The negatives of stars, he thought, and then he remembered his dream.

In his dream, he'd seen a great dark canvas – no, not a canvas, a mouth, a gaping, expanding maw that threatened to consume and destroy and obliterate – and then he'd blinked, and looked again, more closely, and realised that what he was seeing was not hunger after all.

What he could see was a collection of tiny dots, winking in and out of existence, splitting and dividing and clumping together to form bigger dots, but slowly, so, so slowly. And he'd watched this, watched it happen above and beneath and around him, and felt it happen to himself too: he was a single dot, a single wriggling strand, a single thing that had steadily expanded, steadily puffed upwards and outwards, and grown. He'd been warm, too, in the dream – though perhaps that was mainly due to the sheets he'd tangled himself up in – and gradually he'd become aware of his own size, his shape, his mass. He had swelled, and as he swelled, his world too blew outwards.

He saw it all happening again before his eyes – viewed it so vividly, felt it so tangibly – that he had to physically force himself to rip his eyelids apart, to take a deep, deep breath of cold morning air in order to drag himself from the memory.

It was, he thought, a strange dream to have. He'd always liked the idea that dreams were not just chemical reactions, but real stories, real lessons, real fables with real meaning behind them. What, he wondered, was his strange dark dream trying to teach him?

A large, warm hand landed suddenly on his shoulder, and he flinched, almost falling from his chair.

"Good morning," said Germany, and Italy instantly relaxed.

"Morning," said Italy, and it hurt, a lot more than it had done the previous day: it really, truly hurt.

Germany winced in sympathy at the dragging croak of his vocal chords. "Ow," he said, and his hand began moving gentle, soothingly, across the skin bared just above the hotel dressing gown. "That's not good. Why are you awake so early?"

Italy glanced past Germany at the clock standing on the bedside table. It was half past six in the morning. He hadn't even noticed.

"Couldn't sleep," he said, and then he put his hand to his throat.

"I have some throat lozenges somewhere," Germany said, and turned away from the balcony to begin rummaging through his suitcase. Italy drew his legs even closer to his chest miserably, wanting to tell Germany that he didn't want any throat lozenges; all he wanted was for him to come back, to place his hand on his neck again, to stroke his skin and murmur quietly to him in that sleep-slowed and roughened voice he so adored. He said nothing though. It hurt too much. He closed his eyes and watched the dots form strings and chains and bigger dots.

He jumped again when Germany returned with the lozenge, and touched him on the shoulder blade.

"Sorry," said Germany.

Italy took the lozenge from him gratefully, though he wasn't entirely convinced it would stand up to the agony currently sawing its way through his throat. "Thank you," he whispered, and Germany's fingers curled gently in the ends of his hair.

"Why don't we go back to bed for a bit?" he suggested.

Germany hardly ever suggested returning to bed once they had already risen. It was a special occasion, Italy thought, nodding and standing up, one that ought to be taken advantage of.

They lay down on top of the sheets, side-by-side, and Italy put the lozenge in his mouth, and stared at Germany. Germany looked back at him, but after a few moments, turned his face towards the ceiling, cheeks red. Italy didn't mind. Germany was easily embarrassed. It was endearing, really – though, to be fair, Italy found most things about Germany endearing. Romano rolled his eyes whenever his younger brother started waxing lyrical about Germany's odd habits and frustrations, but Italy didn't mind. Romano just didn't see Germany in the way that he did.

Italy looked at him; ran his eyes up his long legs, and his strong stomach and torso, and up and over his neck and head to his blond hair. It was warm, and it was early, and Italy's eyes fell half-shut. He could no longer see the bed, or the walls, or the balcony, or any of the room. All he could see was Germany, suspended in the early morning light, and the dots that swam across the lenses of his eyes and blurred every line in his lover's body. He imagined that Germany was constructed from the dots, the pinpricks, the strings he'd seen in his dream and behind his eyelids: he imagined the dots splitting and gathering and growing until they constructed a whole patch of skin, a finger, a hand, an arm.

He reached out, and pressed his palm to Germany's bicep. It was warm, and the muscle was strong. He ran the very tips of his fingers over it, over every curve, feeling for bones and veins and tiny pale hairs and bumps in the skin. Nations didn't often discuss their human forms. There was no point. You got used to them , Italy supposed. They became normal, a part of you, sort of.

"Germany," he whispered, and Germany grunted, and muttered, "Rest your voice, Italy."

"Germany," he said again, "do you remember choosing your body?"

Germany breathed in slowly, rolling his head to the side. "No," he said. "That was a long time ago…I can hardly remember a few hundred years back."

Italy giggled. It hurt, so he stopped. "You have a bad memory," he said.

Germany smiled. "Do you remember?" he asked, then he turned pink again. It was, Italy thought, with affection, probably a very intimate question for Germany to ask.

"A bit," Italy said. He pulled a face. "I think I do. I remember little snatches…like pictures."

Germany raised one muscular arm, slowly, and reached over, brushing strands of red-brown hair from Italy's eyes. "What's your earliest memory?"

Italy sighed, closing his eyes. He wasn't sure which was the earliest. After a point the images overlapped and jostled with one another, all attached to the same background, like a collage. On the back of his eyelids the dots swarmed again.

"I had a dream last night," he said, lowering his voice as it began to crack and vanish. "I think that might have been it." He paused. "I saw tiny round things, little lights and little strings. They split apart and they grew bigger and bigger. I think I was one of them, looking at my family."

Germany's lips quirked upwards, and Italy knew he was probably internally laughing at his choice of words. "Was I there?" he said, and it seemed that he was only half-teasing.

Italy thought. He wondered. He didn't know. "I'm not sure," he said, and he pictured the tiny dots, the tiny wriggling strings, the minute beginnings of the universe and the building blocks of life. "You probably were," he said, "but neither of us were us yet."


	2. Chapter 2

Under normal circumstances, the notion of somebody missing a World Meeting was abominable to Germany. But this time things were different, though he couldn't have said how. He simply felt – odd. And he knew it was the same for those around him. The air felt heavy, too heavy, and every nation walked as though a giant anchor dragged beneath them, ripping up the carpet and biting at their ankles. Germany's headache was returning too, though he did his best to grit his teeth and ignore it.

Across their hotel room, Italy dressed, eyes half-shut, brow creased. His hair was tangled; it hung across his face, and it didn't seem likely that he would be brushing and styling it as he usually did any time soon. Anxiety flared deep in Germany's stomach, coldly, like a blizzard. Nations rarely, if ever, became unwell; and when they did, it was always a cause for concern. In Germany's experience, severe losses during wartime, an economic crises, or occasionally a large-scale natural disaster could provoke flu-like symptoms. What Italy was suffering from, however, was not quite the same as normal. Something was wrong – he could feel it, almost taste it – but he said nothing to Italy, other than, "Why don't you give this a miss? You need to rest. I'm sure Romano can handle business at the meeting." Italy looked briefly guilty – then immediately rolled back into bed, and fell asleep at once.

Germany headed to the World Meeting alone.

He was accosted by the older, angrier Italy brother the moment he stepped into the room.

"Where's my idiot brother?" Romano demanded. Germany's headache intensified somewhat.

"He's sick," he said.

Romano snorted derisively. "We're all sick," he said, and gestured to the room at large.

"No," said Germany, "I –" And then he decided it was better not to worry Romano, so he said nothing, and turned away to slide into his seat beside Austria with a mumbled "Good morning."

"Is it?" said Austria. "I think it's perfectly beastly." He looked terribly pale, and his eyes were worryingly cloudy and vacant.

Germany fervently hoped tha the other nation wouldn't pass out at the table. "Still feeling unwell?" he asked.

"Ghastly," said Austria. "I've been sitting with my head between my knees all morning. I almost didn't come to this damned meeting."

Germany hesitated a moment, then leant in close to Austria, and said quietly, "Are you worried? About your – being ill?"

Austria started a little, apparently unprepared for the other's sudden close proximity. He did not answer straight away – and when he did, he looked down and away, and said, "I'm sure everything will be alright," to himself more than to his neighbour.

Germany said nothing else. He sat back in his seat, and watched the others steadily filing in. They all looked rather worse for wear, truth be told. Everybody looked either pallid, or flushed, and exhausted. Across the table, he saw that the end of England's nose was bright red, while the skin around India's eyes was inflamed and puffy. It was just the familiar flu symptoms, he told himself. It was just a signifier for the societal problems that could not otherwise be expressed by their human bodies, and everything would be alright soon, just as Austria had said it would.

The anxiety he felt must have been obvious on his face, for all of a sudden France was lowering himself into the seat beside him, and leaning over, and saying, "What is wrong, my friend?"

Germany flinched, just as Austria had done. France examined his face calmly, saying nothing.

"I," said Germany, and he considered telling France about Italy's throat, and his own headache, and the illness that seemed to have touched every nation at exactly the same time yet wasn't quite _right_, somehow, wasn't quite _normal _– but he couldn't summon up the words from his difficult, fleshly throat. And so he shook his head, and said nothing at all.

France didn't look away, but instead continued to scrutinise his face, as one would scrutinise a dense passage in a book. His eyes were tired, like everybody else's – ringed with solemn brown and bloodless purple, only halfway open – but somehow, the way France wore his exhaustion was different. He looked almost fashionable, Germany thought, though when did he not? Veins stood out on his hands, and his lips looked thinner than usual, and were dry and cracked, and there were creases between his nose and his mouth, and suddenly it hit Germany, as though his anchor had snagged on something, then come free at last, only to knock his feet from beneath him: France looked _old_.

Age, for them, was a funny thing, Germany knew. They were old, all of them – older than he could say, with any accuracy, older than he could even guess – but their physical appearances gave not one hint at their true age. Nations, he supposed, _could _look old – France had always appeared older than he and Italy had, he thought – but it was never a physical thing; not really. Hair never turned grey; skin never wrinkled; backs never stooped. It had always been in the way a nation looked at you. There was something there, he realised, something half-concealed behind the eyes. Something about the way they carried themselves – as though the years had made them wise and sad in equal measure – and the way they slowed their movements, not because they were physically tired, but in a desperate bid to feel what it was like to age, to emulate the humans they had spent thousands upon thousands of years watching over.

His brain suddenly felt as though it had been driven through with a stake – and he must have grimaced, because France suddenly looked sympathetic, and said something presumably meant to soothe – but then Belgium stood, and began to speak. And Germany could do nothing but sit back in his seat and breathe deeply as wave after wave of unfamiliar pain washed over his body.

* * *

Back in the hotel room, Italy's sleep was fretful and disrupted. He felt physically uncomfortable; more so than he had ever felt in his life. He felt heavy, for want of a better word: heavy all over, inside and out, as though some great force was pushing him in on himself, as though some great magnet from the earth's core was pulling him down, down, down, drowning him. He coughed and gasped for breath, tossing and turning in sticky sheets, flitting in and out of consciousness, never entirely sure whether he was asleep or awake.

He saw the dots again, saw them rushing, raining down on him, around him, and _he _was a dot too, forming a string, clumping together – and he was pressed hard alongside a million other tiny _things _– but what was it dragging them together?

He awoke with a start, and saw the room spinning around him. On the bedside table stood an indifferent glass of water. It looked tremendously far away, suspended in its transparent column. Italy remembered, suddenly, in a wave of heat, Germany placing it there, touching his forehead, bending to kiss his hair before leaving the room. Another terrible, invisible weight attached itself to his body, fastened as if by padlock to his wrists and ankles and waist, and dragged him downwards, down, down, until he felt the universe rush like swirling water above his head. His stomach turned, and his throat burned, and he desperately wanted Germany. He wanted Germany to touch his face with his cool fingers; to rest his hand on the places where his throat hurt the most; to mumble awkward endearments and nervous promises that he'd be okay, everything would be fine, he was going to get better, in that deep, stern voice of his.

Only very vaguely did he have any notion of where Germany was – something to do with a meeting? – but still, he forced himself from his bed, and embarked upon the unsteady journey across the carpet to the door that led to the hallway. He managed about two steps before it felt as though the ground had been ripped from beneath his bare feet, and was sent crashing to the floor.

The unseen, leaden weight was even more palpable, even more insistently present. It seemed to sit at his very core, in the pit of his stomach, dragging him down, down, down through the carpet and the floorboards and through the other storeys and the foundations of the hotel, and though the ground, the dark, old earth, and through layers and layers of rock, steadily growing hotter and hotter until his skin began to burn and his blood and organs began to boil –

Italy choked on the feel of his own throat. It felt like it no longer fitted him: as though it was too large or too small, or simply shaped in a way that didn't quite mesh with the form of his neck. And all the while he could not breathe properly, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead and his underwear to his hips and buttocks. And even keeping his eyes open was a struggle.

The weight, the tug, the pull down into the earth's core intensified – and briefly, Italy was certain his eyelashes would be pulled from his skin – and then, unable to stand the pressure any longer, his eyes closed, and he saw nothing but the pale dots and strings catching fire, and rushing through darkness.

Germany, he thought, wishing he could summon up the strength to part his lips and call the other nation's name; _Germany_. And then, suddenly, it seemed that he was no longer being dragged downwards – but perhaps the pressure was on his side? He wasn't sure. Which way, he wondered, was up? What was up, exactly? And then he heard the door opening, and suddenly cool air assaulted his parched throat.

And then he didn't see anything anymore.

* * *

They headed back to Germany's house, mainly because it was nearer to the hotel where the meeting had taken place than Italy's was, but also because there was always a chance Italy's brother would be at Italy's house. Germany was in no doubt that Romano would not take kindly to his presence while Italy recovered, and so they departed Belgium with a sheepish wave while Romano scowled as they vanished over the horizon in a taxi.

Germany wasn't entirely sure of what was wrong with Italy – only that it was something unfamiliar and familiar, seemingly innocent, and yet horribly threatening. It was eerie, frankly, the quiet that had descended. Usually it was a struggle to shut Italy up; now, it was tricky to convince him to speak. He repeatedly complained of the pain in his throat, if not with words, with whiny noises, plaintive looks, and anxious gestures, and several times he froze in the middle of whatever he was doing, and scrabbled, terrified, for whatever was nearest to him (often Germany, sometimes things that weren't quite as solid). When this happened, it seemed to Germany that the other nation was collapsing in on himself, perhaps doubling over due to pain in his stomach, except that, no, it was something else. Something more…

And Germany frequently felt very out of his depth, and utterly unable to help. All he could do was stand close to the other, and move his hand slowly across Italy's trembling shoulders, and attempt to say comforting things, like, "There, there." Personally, Germany didn't think "there, there," was a particularly helpful thing for him to say – what did it mean, anyway? – but Italy seemed to appreciate it, given that he always leant in closer, and sighed as though in relief, and thanked him when the pain abated somewhat. But it was doubtless that the illness, whatever it was, was not passing. In fact, Italy seemed to be exhibiting the symptoms rather more frequently with every passing day.

Germany loved Italy a great deal, and would happily have borne the sickness for him – only it seemed that the headaches he had experienced at the World Meeting were making a return, with a vengeance. He worried about the fact that they had both fallen ill at the same time, along with the rest of the world, apparently. He worried about the fact that neither of them seemed to be getting better; and, most of all, he worried about the fact that he didn't understand a single thing about what had befallen them, nor the solution to the problem.

He avoided voicing these anxieties to Italy. He worried about frightening him, and making his condition worse. But Italy was far cleverer than Germany often gave him credit for; and about six days after the World Meeting, Italy came to him in his study, and sat down at his side.

Germany had been trying to empty his inbox, only to be besieged by another, particularly violent headache. It felt as though a thousand asteroids were raining down on the top of his skull. He rested an elbow on his desk, and his forehead on his palm.

"Germany," Italy said softly, his voice grating and creaking like gravel beneath the wheels of a heavy car, and despite the pain and the fear, Germany felt instantly better. "Germany, my love…"

"I'm alright," Germany said, and he forced himself to look up, and open his eyes. It seemed to him that the sun had relocated to right outside his study window.

"No, you're not," said Italy, smiling sadly, "and neither am I. Germany, please tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm not thinking…" said Germany, but Italy shook his head.

"I know you're thinking something," he said, gently, "because you're always thinking something." He paused, wincing a little, and Germany, feeling awfully guilty, attempted to quiet him. But Italy just frowned, and shook his head. "And you've stopped talking to me. Please, Germany, don't ever do that, especially not now."

Germany looked up. Italy's eyes were wide, and warm, and lovely, and to him, they seemed to reflect the entire world. He breathed in, carefully, so as not to aggravate the pain in his head. "I'm worried," he said, "I'm worried because – no, no, I'm not worried, I'm…I'm _scared_, Italy, I'm scared because I don't know what's happening to us, why we're all getting sick at the same time, and I don't know what it means, and I don't know how to make it all better. You know I can't bear to see you in pain, but you _are_, and I'd do anything to make it stop –"

He pulled himself up short, breathless, pink. It was hard to talk about his true thoughts and feelings when the notion was entirely foreign to him, when he'd been brought up to press his lips together and insist that everything was "awesome". He often struggled, now, when he did speak his mind, to stop himself, and he always ended a conversation feeling that he'd said far too much.

He looked away from Italy, embarrassed.

"Hey," said Italy, and he leaned forwards, attempting to catch the other nation's eye. "Hey, Germany. It's okay. It's okay we don't understand what's happening. It's okay to be scared. And I know that you're worried about me and that you probably wish you could deal with this all by yourself, because you're big and brave and strong like that, and lovely and kind and –"

"Alright," said Germany, gruffly.

Italy grinned. "I know you're trying your best. Because you always do. And remember –" He picked up Germany's hand in his own, and kissed it. "We've got each other. We're together, yes? And that's all that matters to me." He smiled, and Germany suddenly felt oddly comforted. Logically, it didn't make much sense that the fact that they were suffering together was reassuring: if anything, Italy being there simply meant he had more to worry about. But it seemed important, tremendously important, more so than usual, anyhow, that they were there together. And just this thought alone seemed to ever so slightly ease the aching in Germany's head that had become something of a constant over the past couple of days.

They remained there, side-by-side, holding hands in Germany's study, staring at the wooden surface of the computer desk, and slowly, like the movement of clouds across the sky, turned their attention to the window, and the hot, bright sun outside.

It could have been a minute, or it could have been an hour before Italy suddenly murmured, his voice by now almost entirely gone, nothing more than a whisper, "I had another dream."

It took Germany a moment to realise what the other nation was referring to. "Oh," he said, at last. "Oh. What was it about?"

Italy's forehead creased, just a little. At length, he said, "I think it was the same as before. Only…more, somehow."

Germany remained silent, allowing Italy to think.

"More dots. But this time they were bigger, much bigger. It felt like I was looking at them from a long way off, but…I understood they weren't just single dots this time. They were…" he trailed off, wrinkling his nose and flapping a hand in an effort to explain, "lots," he said, shrugging. "Millions and millions of tiny…dots, all pressed together into bigger dots. They were glowing." He paused again, and his voice rasped away into almost nothing as he said, "They were like balls of fire."

"Like stars?" Germany said.

Italy nodded, still staring out of the window and into the far distance.

Germany nodded, slowly, pressing his lips together and looking down at his own lap. His headache was intensifying yet again. He needed to sleep. God, he needed to sleep.

"What did you mean," he said, forcing the words out despite the pain, "when you said – last time – when you said you thought we were…there, in your dream. What did you mean?"

Italy turned to look at him, slowly, as though confused by Germany's words. Perhaps he'd forgotten he'd said that. He had been tired, and unwell, after all. But then he winced a little, and Germany realised, with a terrible pang, that actually he was probably in a lot of pain. Distracting pain.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Come on. Maybe you should rest."

"I don't know," said Italy, slowly. He was no longer whispering, but breathing out the words, slurring them, blurring them together. It was a near miracle Germany could understand him.

"Don't say anything," said Germany. "I know it hurts."

Italy looked apologetic. He reached out, and touched Germany's arm briefly, gratefully – and then he turned back to the desk, and took a pen from the jar beside the keyboard, and a pad of paper Germany left beside the phone to take messages on. He scribbled something on the pad, then put the pen down, and handed the notepad to Germany.

_I think we were there. But not as we are now. We were beginning. We were like infants. But we were there._

"How," Germany hesitated, licked his lips. "That can't…why do you think that?"

Italy picked up the paper and the pen again, and wrote something else.

_It felt familiar. I felt like I recognised it._

Germany fought the urge to write out a response, like a child passing notes in class. "You can't have, though," he said. "It was just a dream. You had a similar one at least once before. Maybe it was just déjà vu."

But Italy frowned, and shook his head, and his expression was one of such stern resolution, Germany couldn't even begin to think of a way to argue.

"Hmm," he said, lamely, and looked away. His head was hurting even more than he could have imagined was possible. It hurt so much he could hardly see. He breathed in, deeply and slowly, and bunched his hands into fists. It was not a normal headache; more comparable to that of a sinus infection more than anything else, he thought. It felt like pressure, pure pressure, absolute gravity, as though his head was being squeezed and squeezed and squeezed –

But no. Not that, not quite. It was almost as if a black hole lurked in the centre of his skull, and it was growing larger and hungrier, and slowly, slowly but surely, sucking his brains and bones and tendons inwards, until his head and his body collapsed in on themselves.

It was agonising.

His vision was suddenly blurry, and he couldn't breathe – and so he reached out, anxious to hold Italy, to touch him, to know that someone solid and loving and dependable was there –

And then he suddenly became aware that Italy was whispering to him again.

He blinked, and tried to focus, and the pain in his head lessened. He breathed. He could see again.

"S-sorry?" he said.

Italy's lips moved – but then he seemed to think better of it, and reached again for the pen and the paper.

_You know what it reminded me of?_ he wrote.

Germany struggled to focus his mind on their previous conversation. "Oh," he said, "oh…your dream?"

Italy nodded, and looked down at the paper once again. _Those TV documentaries about the beginning of the universe, the Big Bang. The way they show it on TV._

Germany read what the other nation had written, and then he looked back up at Italy.

Italy watched him, eyebrows raised, as if to say, Well, what do you make of that?

But it frightened Germany, somehow, for some reason – so many things were frightening to him these days – and so he shook his head, and turned the paper over, and gestured for Italy to follow him into the kitchen. And they spoke no more about it.

* * *

The next day was nothing short of hellish. The tearing collapse of the inside of Germany's head wore on from the moment he awoke, to the moment he finally, exhausted and near-delirious, fell asleep. Italy couldn't speak; he couldn't even whisper. They drifted like debris between the bedroom and the bathroom and the kitchen, curling inwards on themselves. Germany desperately wished his brother was there. Prussia could be thoroughly irritating at times, but he was also attentive, and very good at caring for people. But as far as Germany's knew, Prussia was staying with Austria – or perhaps with France. Germany couldn't be sure. It was hard to think at all, given the extreme pain he was in.

And worse, he was in so much pain he could no longer care for Italy as diligently as he would have liked to. Instead, their roles had switched; Italy sat beside him in bed all day, stroking his hair and massaging his temples gently, hardly even wincing at the tearing sting in his own throat and the collapse of his own body. It seemed inevitable, somehow, by now, that it was going to happen; that they would implode, that they would suck themselves apart; consume their own atoms.

In short, Germany felt wretched.

The phone rang sometime mid-afternoon, but neither of them moved to answer it. Later, they would wish that they had. It would have been less frightening that way.

Although – it was not that the event itself was frightening. The actual moment was utterly devoid of drama. It was quite similar to a car, running only on fumes, and then, finally, breathing its last and rolling to a gentle halt. It was like a candle burning down to the wick – glowing faintly – fading. It was quiet.

Together, Germany and Italy went without a struggle.

It was like falling asleep.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Two more chapters to go!

If you could leave a comment, either now or when the whole story finishes, I would be very very happy!

The inspiration tag for this fic is on my fandom Tumblr, here: tagged/our-bodies-fractured-and-bleeding-with-ligh t


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